


the first day of my life

by zenithaurora



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: F/M, Introspection, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Scars, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 11:47:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29435568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zenithaurora/pseuds/zenithaurora
Summary: In the scars, we find hope.Complementary prompt: scars/healing.
Relationships: Aang/Katara (Avatar)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15
Collections: Kataang Valentine's Bash 2021





	the first day of my life

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to upload something longer but life it's a bitch and I only had time to do this. Enjoy!

Katara remembers the time that Aang had accidentally burned her hands. She sunk them under the cool water of the river stream by pure instinct, hoping to find some relief of the pain throbbing in the red lines between her fingers and over the inside of her palms. She opened her eyes, only to see an incandescent blue glow over her hands. Astonished, she took them out of the water, and she gaped at the sight of her unwounded flesh. Jeong Jeong approached her, and revealed that only the greatest waterbenders were gifted with healing abilities.

Sometimes she wonders if it would have been better to keep those scars if it meant not living with the invisible ones.

(She resented that it was Jeong Jeong, and not a waterbender from her tribe, the one that told her about her skills as a healer).

In spite of healing the superficial scars of her hands that day, Katara knows that scars, the ones that truly matters and changes every fiber of your being, never leaves you.

There are days she remembers in details; days she wishes she did not remember.

She recalls a moment back in time when she could still rejoice in the blissful ignorance of childhood, when her main concern was how to beat her brother in snowballing, or how to learn to sew from her grandmother, or how to coax her mother in telling her one last bedtime story even when she was already supposed to be asleep.

Then black snow fell from the sky.

She remembers most of the event in scrambled supercuts: the black particles mixing and interlacing with the snowflakes, a red and black flag hoisted on the poles of every ship, faceless, coward men dressed in the shades of their flag walking down the ramps, the sound of their boots crunching against the snow, her fellow tribesmen giving their loudest battle cry, her heart thumping ferociously against her chest.

However, there is one event she will always remember in detail, regardless of how much her shrinking lungs would beg for her brain to stop thinking about it for years to come.

The blue curtain waved against the crisp winter wind, and she pushed it. Katara may have been a child with no much understanding of what was happening, but even then, she knew deep down that there was something wrong taking place in the inside of her home. She caught the sight of her mother kneeling on the floor, a defeated expression plastered on her face. Although Katara wanted to run to her, to hide in the protection of her parka and her reassuring words, the man towering over her mother sent a crippling shiver down her spine that would not allow her to move.

(She wishes she had moved, if only to hug her one last time).

At the request of her mother, she ran out of the tent in a desperate search for her father. In the end, it did not matter how fast she was; it was not fast enough to avoid the charcoal, nauseating odor that emanated from her charred skin, or the heart-wrenching, horrifying screams coming from her father, or the blackened and shriveled sight of someone that resembled her mother but could not be _her_.

She marks that day as the moment that the few tendrils that were still holding her as the child she was supposed to remain as were snapped against her will. She was instead left as an empty carcass trying to find a purpose in being useful to her grief-stricken village. Life moved on, time passed, but she believes there is a part of her that got frozen somewhere between the ice of her homeland and the tragic augury of the black snowflakes.

In between the daily chores and keeping the tribe alive after they were left as only a handful of children and elders, sometimes she wondered: _could I have done more?_

With the exception of her father and the rest of the men leaving to fight in the war, life ran its usual course. Katara found some comfort in the certainty and predictability of her life, even when in the depths of the night, when she was the only awaken soul, or when she admired the vastness of the ocean, she imagined what could be out there, beyond the whiteness and coldness of her home. She would shake those thoughts immediately because there were more important things to take care of. There was no use in putting roots in preposterous dreamlands, not when the real world around her contradicted all her fantasies.

Then she met Aang.

In a fit of rightful anger against her brother, she broke a colossal iceberg in half, and by doing that, she liberated him from a century-long slumber. With her blue arrows tattoos that marked his limbs and the expanse of his back, nape, and forehead, with his infectious optimism, and his cheerful and open demeanor, it didn’t take her long to decide that he was the strangest person she had ever met.

She liked him.

She remembers the first day they had met each other, and how he asked her to go penguin-sledding with her. Although hesitant at first, when she was on the back of the animal, she could not deny that she had never felt so free in such a long time. Every time he tried to coax her into doing something fun and spontaneous, like riding dangerous animals, or going to the North Pole to be trained, or organizing a secret dance party in enemy territory, the ache that was heavy and suffocating on top of her chest would alleviate. She lived for every genuine smile and affectionate gaze he would give her, and she never made of hiding it from him.

However, she understood rather quick how he also had his share of scars hiding beneath the surface of an upbeat attitude and a hopeful outlook for the future.

She recalls the time when their relationship was still simple and easy-going. She knew that he had feelings for her, and he knew that she feelings for him, but it could all be kept buried without those feelings meddling in what they had. She would deflect any chance he tried to bring it up, and he complied. She was not ready to talk about it, not when everything around her was so uncertain and unpredictable, and he understood.

Then the sky turned white.

She remembers that moment in vivid detail, a tragedy in slow motion. He rose from the ground, sending shards of green crystal in all directions. A couple of minutes before, enemies were around them, offering no chances of escaping, but she knew that she could always trust him. One moment she was smiling, her eyes tearing up with pride, and a moment later, she gasped in soundless horror when the lightning pierced through his body. The tears streamed freely down her face, and by instinct of pure rage, she seized the water around her in a giant wave she could ride, willing with every fiber of her being, begging for no one to listen, _‘please, don't let me be late again'._

(She couldn't live knowing that yet another person died protecting her).

She spent weeks by his side, hidden in the oppressive silence and darkness of the bedchamber that was designated for Aang. The only light came from the candles spread on the metal floor and the water when she used it for healing. She gave him healing sessions thrice a day for almost a whole month: one in the morning, one at noon, and one before passing out in the same room. Sometimes, she could still feel the white hotness of the lightning burning her pores and the fine hair of her nape standing up at the sensation of the sizzling electricity lingering in the air. She could still feel the weight of his broken body precariously balancing on her trembling, slender arms. Sometimes, she remembered how her own body had given up with him.

On nights when the accusing and screaming voices would wake up gasping for thin air, she held water in her hands, shaking with fury, shaking with desperation, and brought the incandescent glow to every small scrap, to every bruise, and to every mortal wound and pleaded as sneaky tears mixed with the healing water. ‘ _I should have done more’,_ it is a statement that crossed her mind every awaken moment spent on that ship, but in his soft snores and the gentle rise of his chest, she found consolation in that she was not too late this time.

He liked to keep his scars hidden away from eyes that were too eager and too ignorant to judge. She got know him beyond his image of a simple child, and understood the depths in which his hurt ran. His concealed anger and grief, which would come in spurts of flashing rage, made her scared for him. Sometimes, she could not understand how someone that took so much pride in his optimism could hurt so much. Then she remembers some of the things he had been through, some of things he had only confessed when no one else was around, and she understands.

She often questions the abilities in her hands. She can stop bleedings, mend broken bones and wipe out bruises, but as she stares at the pain that surrounds her, the grief and sorrow painted in the frown lines of every man, woman and child that she meets after the war, she wonders how powerful her hands truly are.

-

Aang remembers the moment he got his tattoos. It was just a few months after the equinox, when the monks declared that he was officially the youngest master airbender in the history of the Southern Air Temple. His excitement and his wide smile slowly faded in grimaces and spasms of pain with every tiny stab of the needle in and out of his skin. He whined when the needle pierced the tender flesh of his thighs and arms, and he downright cried when the needle sent electricity down his spine. However, in the end, and as his tattoos healed, he knew it was worth the pain.

His tattoos were the only scars he was proud of.

(He resented that his tattoos, one of the last things his people ever did, were permanently broken).

On a logical sense, he knows what had happened to his people. He had seen the time-worn state of the temples, he had buried friends and strangers alike, but there is always that nagging voice in his head that scolds him that he will never truly know what happened.

Life at the temple was simple. Despite the chores he had to do every day, the freedom in the air travelling through the sturdy pillars was palpable in every inhalation during meditation hours and in every unexperienced flight with his glider. Besides his studies, there was not much to worry about, and even the trips that were justified with the intention of furthering his education, were an endless source of fun and opportunities for new friendships around the world. Life was easy, and simplicity was all his heart yearned for.

Then everything changed with the news thrown onto him.

He was the Avatar, or so did the monks tell him. He did not feel like he was something beyond an airbender, and he did not want to be something more than that, but destiny always had a twisted sense of humor when it came to him. He did not want to be more than he already was, and yet, his people around him had already decided that he no longer belonged with them. He did not want to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, but the world around him had already made that decision for him.

In hindsight, the result was inevitable; it was only a matter of time until he had to make a drastic choice to escape the suffocating air of the place that he used to call home. He can recall the weight of the rolled letter in his hand, the surprised bleats of Appa when he silently sneaked in the stables, the downpour pounding against the stone floor and soaking his clothes wet— that one last glance of the temple in all their glory.

(His brain reasons that, if he had waited only a little longer, Gyatso would have come with him and he would not be subjected to the loneliness that cripples him some days).

Then he met Katara.

His body was cold, and so was whatever he was leaning against to. The numbness that reigned over his body was receding, but all he could think was that he was freezing and he felt too weak to prevent it. When he managed to finally open his eyes, he gaped at the sight of a pair of sapphire eyes boring into him. He had just wakened up without knowing that a hundred years had passed frozen in time, but he could not stop staring at her eyes.

He liked her.

She remembers the hold of her slim yet strong arms wrapped around him when he found out what the Fire Nation has done to his people and the reassurance in her calming words. Although he ran away and was not present to witness the massacre committed in the temple, most days he would feel the devastation settle in the back of his eyes and the loneliness creep up its way through his bones and to the center of his soul. Sometimes, in the shawl of the twilight, voices would haunt his dreams _(you should have done more!)_ and he would wake up in shudders and cold sweats, panting onto the grass. He could not imagine why someone like her would remain by his side, but he could not be more grateful for her friendship, her solid presence, her fortitude, her kindness.

He recalls the time when their relationship was still simple and easy-going. He knew that she had feelings for him, and she knew that he had feelings for her, but it could all be kept buried, without those feelings meddling in what they had. She would deflect any chance he tried to bring it up, and he complied. He wanted more than anything to talk about it, to finally decide the nature of their relationship, but the right moment never presented itself.

When Appa was taken away from him, the dread and guilt that had seemed to lessen with the passage of the months came back tenfold. His life companion, his only connection to his past, his best friend, was kidnapped. He was not there to protect him— he had failed him, just like everyone else before. He glided over the arid dunes and through the dry sky, searching for signs of him, but he was too late— Appa was gone. The realization that he was probably never going to see his bison ever again struke him in a fit of fury when the sandbenders admitted that they had sold Appa. He was floating in a tornado of sand dust he had created from the turmoil within him, too lost, too tired, too angry to try anymore.

Then he felt a pressure on his hand, gentle but firm. She wrapped her arms around him like that calamitous day when his world crumbled down with the realization that he was alone in the world. He wanted to hold on his anger, he wanted to live it, to sink in it, but her arms kept him afloat, until the anger vanished and he was only left with his insurmountable grief. Her arms, despite how much he did not want to acknowledge it, tether him to the world.

However, he understood rather quick how she also had her share of scars hiding beneath the surface of an unfathomable compassion and a hopeful outlook for the future.

He understood it more than ever when he noticed rage echoing through her piercing eyes one day.

He knew that she had been having a hard time moving past what happened in Ba Sing Se, and that it was affecting her more than she wanted to be let known. Katara had always kept her pain guarded, and it was short after meeting her and travelling with her, that he realized how much pain there was behind her soft eyes. Sometimes he would approach her when she was alone sitting on the beach shore with her toes immersed in the seawater. Other times, he understood when his presence was not desired and he kept his distance.

A field trip with Zuko in search of her mother’s killer was _not_ in the realm of his expectations. He knew about the rage that resided inside her, how sometimes she struggled to conceal it and how her compassion and kindness were only a mere reflection of it. She loaded a small pack of her belongings onto the saddle and he watched her leave, hoping that in her search for closure, she was not going to hurt herself.

(She managed to save him from his rage once, so why was he too inept do the same for her?)

She came back a couple of days later, rougher around the edges but with a distinct lack of tension on her shoulders. She maintained her distance for the rest of the day, with her slender arms wrapped around her torso. Later that night, when she was laying on the bed with her sight fixated on the sky night and her back to the door, he placed a tray with roasted duck, steamed rice, and salted vegetables, and told her he was proud of her.

She liked to keep her scars guarded, away from eyes that did not deserve to demean her for the things she experienced. He got to know her beyond his image of a sweet girl, and understood the depths in which her hurt ran. She never wanted to feel like a burden forced upon others because she was too weak to deal with her own issues, especially when everyone around her needed her to be strong. Sometimes he could not understand how someone that showed so much compassion to anyone that would cross her path could bear so much rage and indignation. Then he remembers some of the things she had been through, some of the things she had confessed when no one else was around, and he understands.

With the end of the war, many people sought his advice and guidance. He is the Avatar; he has mastered the four elements over a hundred times and his position involves keeping the balance between the Human World and the Spirit World, as well as advising and comforting the people around him. However, as he stares at the devastation and chaos left by a century-long war, he feels nothing but powerless.

-

The full moon shines bright silver through the gauzy bedsheets; her pale beams it is the only light in the room. She closes her eyes in hopes of falling asleep with no avail. She twists and turns, trying to ignore the pull of the moon, but her eyes are fluttering underneath her eyelids. Her body unwinds for a fleeting moment, but the sensation of the flowing hot blood lying by her side jolts her awake.

She turns around, trying to ignore how the moon calls for her, only to be met by the sight of his back.

Shortly after the end of the war, they began sharing a bed during the nights. It was not a progression in their relationship, but rather a necessity present in all the members of their group. The day after the Sozin’s Comet, when the six of them were finally reunited, some of the servants who have not been banished yet guided them through the palace and pointed the assigned bedrooms for everyone. She had wakened up in the middle of night, panting, trying to get as much air as possible through her lungs, and decided to get up and find someone to be with at that hour of the night. She soon found out they were all in that same position, where the war was officially over, but their new reality had not sunk yet in their bones.

They spent the rest of the night huddling in one room, with no distinction on who they were holding onto.

She stares at his back, more specifically, at the scar that splits his arrow in half. She traces it with her quivering fingers, and touches the hard edges that had acquired a rough silver crust around the borders. She presses softly against the reddish pink of its indentation, provoking a groan out of him.

Although the scar had long healed, she was never going to forget the sight of his blackened wound, and the sensation of hot blood pouring out of a cold body as long as she lives.

“Do you want me to turn around?” he asks. His voice is gravelly from an extended lack of use.

She does not answer; he shifts his body around as she places herself almost on top of him, with her head laying on where his heart is. She concentrates in listening the thumping sound of it, and the sensation of the rise and fall of his hard chest against her hair. Deep down, in a part of herself she does not want to admit it exists, she wants to feel the pull of his blood under the dominance of her nimble fingers. She knows what she is capable and he knows it too, but she is strong and he trusts her.

He rubs her back with one calloused hand and strokes her hair with the other one. She closes her eyes as she thinks that she may be able to go to sleep now.

“It’s okay, it’s kind of ugly” he jests, smiling into her hair.

The tension takes over her body once again. She rises her head to meet his sight. “I didn’t mean that”.

“I know” he says and kisses between her eyebrows, “but it does bother you”.

She lowers her eyes and stares intently at his chest. “It reminds me too much of that day of that day, but it’s not just that” she admits.

Silence lingers in the air for almost a minute. She is not sure if she is capable of keep talking, but he tightens the hold he has of her body and that is all the encouragement that she needs.

“I’m sorry it scarred”, she sniffles, hoping that the tears blurring her sight will not flow down her cheeks, “I’m sorry that you have a permanent mark on your back because I wasn’t capable of healing it”.

“I don’t mind” he confesses in an attempt to comfort her. At the quirk of her eyebrow, he laughs. “Okay, I used to hate it”, he concedes, “but I don’t hate it anymore”.

“What changed?” she asks, the curiosity taking over her.

“I used to see it as a mark of my failure, just another sign that I was lacking at my only purpose, but now”, he shrugs, “it’s just a scar”.

She smiles and shakes her head. “That doesn’t make any sense”.

He guffaws, breaking the quiet of the mantle of the night.

“It’s just…” he begins, “my scar won’t heal, but I’ll always see it as sign of the good things that came after it”, he kisses the crown of her head, “I made my peace with it”.

She ponders on his words for a second. “Do you believe that it can be done with all scars?”.

He shrugs and smiles at her. “I don’t see why not”.

**Author's Note:**

> Title based on 'First Day of My Life' by Bright Eyes.


End file.
